


Shut up. Sit down.

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At his desk, he looked out at Neal, watched with a funny feeling in his stomach as Neal furtively pulled out a donut and very inelegantly jammed half of it into his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut up. Sit down.

Shut up. Sit down.  
Peter/Elizabeth/Neal  
PG-13  
WC: 2227

 

A/N: Ridiculousness! I am done writing/spamming you all for at least a week! Feel free to leave feedback, constructive criticism, and chocolate.

Also: The use of Donut vs. Doughnut was _seriously bothering me_. I rarely think about how to spell it since I hate cakes/donuts with a fiery passion. See [the debate rage on](http://grammarist.com/spelling/doughnut-donut/).

 

 

 

 

Peter didn't know when he began to think so much about Neal Caffrey - it just sort of snuck up on him. To hear El tell it, he's always been obsessed with Neal, but that was work, and this was picking out ties. He stopped by the department store on his way home to grab a few ties because even _he_ had to admit the various coffee stains on his clothes were shameful.

He fingered the brightly colored silk ties and grabbed a nice blue one and thought, How much hell will I catch from Neal? He returned it to the rack hastily.

He scanned over the row of ties and his eyes rested on a brightly checkered purple tie, expensive looking - with a price tag to match, he discovered - and put it back like it might bite him. Of course Neal would like it, it was the most expensive tie there.

He bought the blue one instead.

 

 

***

 

 

They got on the elevator together.

Neal turned towards him and paused. “New tie?”

“Yes,” Peter said, mentally bracing himself.

“Is it -” Neal choked, as if he was fighting back a wave of nausea. “Is it corduroy?”

“Leave it alone.”

 

 

***

 

 

He was late for work, and instead of eating at home, he popped into a donut shop a block from the FBI building. The smell of warm, freshly made donuts made his mouth water. He ordered a dozen to go and then thought, Better pick up something for Neal and scanned the back-lit case in front of him.

He grinned slightly, picked out the girliest looking donut he could find and ordered two.

Holding his box and coffee balanced precariously in one hand with his briefcase in the other, he walked towards work. Probably Neal didn't even eat refined sugar. Probably donuts were too _gauche_ for Neal Caffrey and he racked his brain - had he ever seen Neal eat a donut before? He honestly couldn't remember. So much for his much vaunted powerful skills of observation.

Jones held the door open for him. "Morning, boss. Oh, hey, donuts."

"Help yourself," Peter said and deposited the box in the kitchenette. He grabbed two for himself and the small bag that held Neal's donuts in them.

He concentrated on smoothing out his expression. Peter had actually made himself mad thinking about Neal's possible donut snobbery and threw the bag on Neal's desk with a little more force than necessary. Neal looked up with wide, alarmed eyes. "Peter?"

"For you," Peter said gruffly.

"Thanks?" Neal said, warily peering into the bag.

Peter stomped past Neal's desk, towards his office.

At his desk, he looked out at Neal, watched with a funny feeling in his stomach as Neal furtively pulled out a donut and very inelegantly jammed half of it into his mouth, pink sprinkles scattering all over his desk. He watched Neal chew his mouthful slowly and lean back in his chair like a preening, self-satisfied cat.

Guess that answered that.

 

 

***

 

 

Sometimes when they were working closely on his case, Neal would pull up a chair and work on the corner of Peter’s desk. Peter wasn't paying any attention and grabbed a file without looking. He swore softly when he felt the file slice into the skin along his palm.

Neal looked up. "Paper cut?" he asked, smiling slightly, though not without sympathy. "Those are the worst."

"Says the guy who got shot."

"Says the guy who was just in a car wreck," Neal said pointedly.

"Touché," Peter acknowledged. "Still, I think I'll survive a papercut."

"Not according to Moz." Neal leaned over, opened the drawer closest to him in Peter's desk and pulled out a small first aid kit. "Here, let me."

He used the antiseptic wipe, cleaned off the cut, used the Neosporin and carefully placed three Band-Aids across his hand with the same level of concentration he used when forging Monets. Allegedly.

"Thanks," Peter said. And the truth of it was, he was grateful. Papercut be damned, his hand was _sore_.

"You want some more coffee? I'll get you some coffee."

Peter watched him leave with suspicion. Neal was never this nice without some ulterior motive, not even when he was hit by another CAR. But then again, he had El there to sit by his bedside and nurse him, and-

Oh holy God, Peter thought. Neal was his work wife.

 

 

***

 

 

"Elizabeth wants you to come for dinner," Peter said, though he had reservations about being around Neal right now, which he'd shared at least in part with Elizabeth, and she had summarily ignored.

"Really?" Neal asked quizzically. "Because you sound like you'd rather be flossing with barbed wire." He was tossing a rubber ball in the air and catching it with a dull thwack in one hand and writing with the other.

Peter paused - Neal was writing with his left hand. "You're ambidextrous?"

"Relatively," Neal said. Thwack-thwack-thwack.

Peter grabbed the ball in mid-air. "How did I not know that?"

"There are many things you don't know about me, Peter. I'm an international man of mystery!"

"No, you're an enormous pain in my ass," Peter corrected him. "Regardless, El wants you to try some catering samples and she demanded I bring you home."

"Pick me up at 5:30," Neal said with a wide smile. "And bring flowers. Real flowers, not your usual gas station flowers. I'm not a cheap date."

Peter knew Neal was joking, could see it plainly in the fake, too shiny smile, but Peter was still pretty sure he was having an aneurism. Like, he could literally feel something short in his brain. His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out.

The smile slid off Neal's face, replaced with concern. "Peter?"

"5:30," Peter managed in a strangled voice, then high-tailed it back to his office. He was not running away, he told himself, it was a strategic retreat. They even taught it at Quantico.

 

 

***

 

 

Peter carefully did not look at Neal during the entire ride to his house, trying the catering samples, or the takeout that followed. Neal didn’t even seem to _care_ that Peter was ignoring him and Peter wasn’t sure why that bothered him so much.

“So,” El said, looking worriedly between the two of them. “How was work?”

“It's not like we're married or anything," Peter burst out. Possibly, he was losing his mind.

Elizabeth blinked.

"I think I should go," Neal said after a stilted silence.

 

***

 

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Elizabeth finally asked. They were sitting on the couch, long after Neal had hurried out of the house like his ass was on fire.

"Don't you think I spend too much time with Neal?"

"Oh, Peter," Elizabeth said fondly. "I've always shared you with something. It used to be work. Is it sad that I'd rather it be something that could love you back?"

"Yes," Peter admitted. "It's incredibly said." He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He explained how he thought they were too close, how Neal took too many liberties, how like, um, maybe Peter depended too much on Neal.

"Sounds like a partnership," Elizabeth said thoughtfully.

"Sounds like a _marriage_." And why didn't Elizabeth see what a terrible, horrible mess this was?

"And what's wrong with that, mister?" Elizabeth put her hands on her hips.

Peter held his hands up, "Nothing, nothing. I just already have a wife _whom I love very much_ \- is all."

Elizabeth’s expression softened and she lowered her hands. "Two wives," she said, letting the words roll around in her mouth. "Two wives. Might be nice, having two people to take care of you, two people to worry about you."

Peter could not believe this - maybe she was _feverish_ \- but she seemed to warming up to the idea.

"Do you think," Elizabeth said slowly, with a speculative gleam in her eye, "that I could get him to do all the cooking?"

They talked for hours.

 

 

***

 

 

"Ah, come to apologize for acting crazy?" Neal asked, opening the door and leaning against the doorjamb, face carefully blank. 

"Yes, well, there was a bit of that." Peter didn't know what it was about Neal that made him nuts. Neal constantly challenged him, surprised him, tried him to the very pits of his ragged soul. He didn't trust Neal not to steal from the Guggenheim, but he trusted his life with Neal, he trusted _El's_ life with Neal, and that meant something important. But he couldn’t deny he wanted him, no, _needed_ him, and how had life gotten so goddamn complicated?

"I just," Peter said, stumbling over the words, "was an ass. I do want you around. Tonight wasn't about you, it was about me. I don't know, I guess I just thought I needed you too much and..."

"I do not even know what you're saying to me," Neal said flatly.

"Hey," Peter said suddenly, "what are you planning to do after you get your tracker off?"

Neal shrugged. "Don't know, haven't given it too much thought." He smiled wryly. "And what're the chances I'm going to make it another two years without going back to prison?"

"Good, I hope." Peter felt the sincerity pouring out of him. "Everyday, I pray you do." Nothing disarmed Neal more than telling the truth.

"I know, I know, so do I," Neal confessed and moved away from the door. "Are you planning on coming in? Or are you going to spend all night out in the hall mumbling at me?"

Peter brushed past Neal, into the familiar surroundings. The place and most of the furnishings were June’s, but there were touches of Neal everywhere - in the modern pendant lamp above the table, the gold accents, the charcoal nudes on his easel. Would Neal give this up? Would he give him up?

"So you need me, huh?" Neal asked, voice behind him as he closed the door.

"Oh, God. Shut up. Sit down. Let me talk," Peter said, exasperated. It figured that out of everything he said, Neal would focus on that part.

They sat at his table, heads close, while Peter talked and talked about how much Neal meant to him and Neal, for once, listened. He stuttered, he messed up the words, he said a few right things but mostly wrong. But Neal’s eyes were soft and unguarded and Peter figured he must be getting the gist of what he meant. For once, maybe, they were on the same page.

“So what I’m gathering is,” Neal said slowly, “you find me irresistible.”

“You are most definitely not irresistible.”

“And yet here you are,” Neal said. His tone was light, but his shoulders were hunched over and he clasped and unclasped his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them.

Peter laughed softly, affectionately. "You are so obnoxious." And he was, but God, Peter wanted him anyway, wanted to keep him. He leaned forward, grabbed Neal's jaw and pulled him closer. "Last chance to back out."

Neal brought his hands up. “Say this won’t change anything,” he said, voice low, with a ragged, unfamiliar note.

“It’s going to change everything,” Peter said honestly. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. We always do.” He paused. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” Neal said, probably the most honest word he’d ever uttered, raw and sad and hopeful.

"I’m not playing chicken with you," Peter warned and grabbed the back of Neal's head and pushed their lips together.

Neal opened his mouth beneath his and Peter felt his tongue, could taste the wine he‘d drank earlier and something entirely Neal. _Oh._ Peter could get used to this.

He remembered his first kiss with El, the smell of her perfume, the tickle of her long hair. It was mind-blowing, life changing, like he'd been seeing the universe upside down and she had somehow righted it. He never dreamed he would feel the same way about another person, but he felt the familiar vertigo and the unfamiliar scrape of stubble, heard the quiet, happy hums Neal made in the back of his throat. He twisted his hands in Neal's hair, messing it up and pushing it around. I have been here, he thought, and nothing will ever be the same.

They pulled apart with the kind of obscene wet sound that made Peter blush to the roots of his hair.

"Come home with me," Peter said, unsure if it was the enormity of what he was doing or the kiss that made him breathless. Both, maybe.

"El-"

"We talked about it for a long time. She sent me over here."

Neal nodded once, yes, then again, this time more certain. "Okay," he said shakily.

"El said she wouldn't mind having another wife," Peter said with a smile. Heh.

 _"Excuse me?"_ Neal asked, appalled. He imitated Peter's voice in a bad falsetto. "Neal, don't steal the Mona Lisa. Neal, I'm keeping my eye on you. Neal, put those rubies _down_."

"That is not even sort of what I sound like. Pack an overnight bag.”

"That's _exactly_ what you sound like." Neal shot him a quick smile, for the moment warm and uncomplicated. “Who's the wife now?"

 

 

 

 

The end.

 

 


End file.
